


why not be as close as i can get to you?

by starrydrowse



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Drunk Sex, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Joger Week 2019, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Thunderstorms, just boys bein soft, thats my brand tbh, they also build a blanket fort so that's fun, wine drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 23:37:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21169775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrydrowse/pseuds/starrydrowse
Summary: There’s a nudge against his arm, and he tips his head to the side see Roger holding the bottle out to him. His cheeks are flushed and he’s bathed in warm light from the lamp on the floor, and something flutters in John’s chest. The sounds of the wind and the rain beating against the window and the Hendrix record playing quietly in the corner are drifting in muffled through the blankets, and John can’t remember the last time he felt as comfortable and as relaxed as he feels right now, with Roger’s warmth at his side.He takes a long swig and then screws the cap back on, passes the wine back to Roger before he sighs, fixes him with a lazy smile. Roger laughs a little at nothing at all and grins back at him.*Or, there’s a thunderstorm. John and Roger make the most of it. There may or may not be wine involved.





	why not be as close as i can get to you?

**Author's Note:**

> behold: my contribution to joger week!!!! i know im late but tbh that should just be the expectation for me by now ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ i combined two of the prompts, wine + bad weather. tbh i was super super pumped for this week, joger is one of my favourite pairings hands down so i was super excited to have another excuse to write it!!!!
> 
> thank u to my sweet friend finn for helping me so much with this fic!! ur always being there to help me work through my ideas and give me new ones (thank you for being the one to suggest blanket fort hand jobs in the first place!!) and offer constructive criticism and honestly you helped me make this into something i’m really happy with so thank you thank you thank you ♡ (check out their [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachydeacon/pseuds/peachydeacon) and their [tumblr](https://get-on-your-bikes-and-ride.tumblr.com)!)
> 
> anyway i literally adore this pairing and i’m really happy with how this fic turned out, so i really hope u all enjoy it!!!!!!
> 
> title is taken from the song 333 by against me

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles low and deep. The wind picks up and gusts harder, shaking the windowpane in its frame as rain beats against the glass, and the rainwater that's managed to make it through is starting to pool on the ledge, dripping slowly down onto the floor. It’s the kind of rain that soaks you to the skin the second you step out into it, leaves you shaking and chilled to the bone for hours on end. By all accounts it’s a miserable night, but inside Roger’s flat, stretched out on the floor of the living room with Roger’s warmth at his side, John feels safe and cozy and content. It _is_ possible that it has something to do with the empty bottle of wine knocked over on the floor beside him and the half-empty one in Roger’s hand, but John doesn’t think so.

John is flushed and warm and his limbs and his chest and his head feel weighed down by something heavy and pleasant that makes moving seem like a lot more effort than it’s worth. The living room floor is soft and comfortable under him, cushioned by the piles of blankets they’d thrown there about an hour ago when Roger had insisted that they’re _definitely_ not too old for blanket forts and then decided to prove it.

It’s actually not all that bad, John thinks, looking up at the worn fleece blanket making up the ceiling— it’s sagging a little in the middle, stretched maybe a bit too far, all the way from the wall it’s thumbtacked to to the couch behind John and Roger’s heads that it’s draped over. Other spare blankets they’d dug out from the back corner of the storage closet hang down over the sides and close them in, secured haphazardly with safety pins, which Roger had insisted John was too drunk to handle before pricking his own finger not 5 seconds into the task and letting John snatch the pins from him and take over. The extra blankets are all piled on the floor— not unlike a nest, really— insulating them from the cold wood. John actually thinks they did a pretty stellar job, if he’s being honest— especially considering how much wine they’d already gone through, and the fact that neither of them had so much as seen a blanket fort in at least the last decade.

There’s a nudge against John’s arm, and he tips his head to the side see Roger holding the bottle out to him. His cheeks are flushed and he’s bathed in warm light from the lamp on the floor, and something flutters in John’s chest. He tries his best to ignore it, accepting the bottle from Roger and taking a swig. It isn’t great— a little sweet if he’s being honest— but it’s not bad for wandering in to the liquor store a few blocks from from Roger’s flat and buying three bottles of the cheapest red wine they had in stock (which is exactly what he did). He screws the cap back on and passes the bottle back to Roger, before sighing and fixing him with a lazy smile. Roger laughs a little at nothing at all and grins back at him.

Neither of them have ever been big believers in personal space, especially when it comes to each other, but lying together on the living room floor now they’re really very close— so close their shoulders are touching and John can feel Roger’s hair tickling his neck and John can’t remember the last time he felt as comfortable and relaxed as he feels right now with Roger’s warmth at his side. The sounds of the wind and the rain and the Hendrix record playing softly in the corner are drifting in muffled through the blankets.

The conversation flow easily. It always does, with them, but it’s made even easier now by the alcohol. It’s a pleasant sort of drunk— slow and easy like honey, all playful, giddy warmth, and John finds himself smiling so wide that his cheeks hurt, hiding his face in Roger’s shaking shoulder.

“Shut up,” Roger laughs.

“_Seriously!_” John exclaims, pulling back and leaning on his elbow to grin at him. “A _dentist!_ Can you imagine if you’d actually followed through with that?? You’d be so _bored_, Rog!” 

“Well I’m not a dentist, am I?”

“No,” John giggles, “You’re a biologist. Pretty much the same thing.”

Roger laughs and shoves at his shoulder. “They’re _not_ the same, first off. And second, I’m not a _biologist_, I have a biology _degree_.”

“Remind me again how that’s different?”

“The difference,” Roger says, leaning over John suddenly, making John’s stomach flip before he realizes that Roger is just reaching for the wine behind him, “is that _I’m_ not a virgin. _And_, I’m not gonna spend my entire life holed up in a lab somewhere like a hermit.”

“Are all biologists virgins?”

“All of them.”

John hums, his eyes sparking as he tries to suppress a smile. “So what _are_ you gonna do then?”

“Hmm?”

“If you’re not busy being a virgin recluse.”

Roger grins at him, something mischievous dancing in his eyes. “I’m gonna be a rock star.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and John giggles. 

“We both are Deaks,” Roger sighs, flopping down onto his back. “We’re gonna be legends.”

“You think?”

“Mhm. Just _imagine_ it Deaky,” he says dreamily, “_stadiums_ full of people screaming our names, singing along to the songs _we_ wrote...”

“Don’t forget the drugs and the booze and the wild parties,” John chimes in, and Roger hums in agreement.

“And the birds,” he adds, tipping his head to waggle his eyebrows at John.

Something in John’s stomach drops, and his smile falters just a little before he catches it and plasters it back on.

“Of course, how could I forget?”

Roger takes a big gulp of wine before passing the bottle back to John. There’s a deep rumble of thunder then that temporarily drowns out the Hendrix floating in from the corner of the room, and when John takes a sip he doesn’t notice Roger’s eyes on him.

John sets the bottle back down and leans his head on his hand, searching Roger’s eyes. “You really think we’ll make it?”

“How could we not?” Roger answers immediately. “You’ve heard the stuff we’ve come up with. It’s _really_ good. And it’s _different—_ just try and name another band out there that’s doing what we’re doing. There’s no one.”

John is smiling, glancing down as he picks at a loose thread in the blanket underneath them.

“We’re good,” Roger says. “We’re _really_ good.” 

John hums, shifting his attention to look up at him.

“Not to mention we’re all drop dead gorgeous,” Roger adds, shooting him one of those winning smiles, and John laughs, bright, his eyes crinkling. 

Roger grabs the bottle again and John finds that he suddenly can’t tear his eyes away— he’s mesmerized by the movement of Roger’s throat when he takes a sip and swallows, by the way his tongue darts out to lick the wine off his lips. He’s so fucking _pretty_ it’s genuinely distracting, and John barely notices the thunder rumbling in the distance.

Roger suddenly seems so much closer than he did before— barely a couple of inches away— and John can smell the wine on his breath, feel the warmth radiating from him. He knows he’s staring but he can’t make himself stop, even when Roger looks back at him with that charming bloody smile on his face and that sparkle in his eyes. His cheeks are flushed from the alcohol and as he looks back at John his smile starts to falter, just a little. _It would be so easy,_ John thinks, and _jesus_ have Roger’s eyes always been that _blue?_ It almost doesn’t seem possible, how blue they are, so wide and bright, the length of his eyelashes casting shadows over his cheekbones. John’s heart is beating hard in his chest and he can feel the heat of Roger’s breath and he’s so, _so_ close—

Suddenly, a deafening clap of thunder booms— so loud it sounds like it’s coming from directly above them, and they both jump apart, wide-eyed in shock, as the flat is plunged into darkness. The wind is shrieking outside and rattling the windowpane, the rain whipping against the glass, and it sounds almost impossibly loud now in the dark, without the hum of the noisy refrigerator or the music to distract from it. John’s heart is hammering in his chest and they’re both silent for a few seconds in surprise, until John hears Roger giggle and suddenly they’re both breaking out into laughter.

Roger’s laugh is loud and endearing and John laughs along with him so hard that his stomach hurts. His eyes are slowly adjusting to the dark and he can just make out Roger, grinning at him from ear to ear.

“Are you afraid of the dark?” Roger whispers.

John giggles and grins so wide his cheeks ache. “I’m terrified Rog,” he laments, flopping onto his back dramatically, “please, hold me.”

Roger’s laugh is bright and then he’s on top of John, tackling him in a hug and squeezing him as tight as he can. John couldn’t control his laughter if he tried, shrieking as Roger wraps himself around him like a koala, giggling into John’s neck. John can smell the faint cologne on his neck and all he can see and hear and feel is _rogerrogerroger,_ all around him, squeezing him so tightly in his arms, his laughter vibrating against John’s chest.

Eventually though it becomes suffocating, and between giggles John gasps dramatically, “I can’t breathe!”

Roger laughs but a second later he lets him go and reaches for the wine instead. He takes a swig before passing it to John.

“It’s so dark,” John whispers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Do you want me to go find some candles?”

John blinks at him. “We’re in a blanket fort, Rog.”

“Yeah…” Roger trails off, the smallest crease forming between his eyebrows that makes John’s heart flutter in his chest.

“Do you _want_ to burn your flat down?” John laughs, and he can make out Roger’s blush even in the dark.

“I mean, maybe,” Roger mutters, “‘s a piece of shit anyway.”

John shakes his head, still smiling, taking another sip from the bottle.

“Anyway,” Roger sighs, falling back onto the blankets beside John, “where was I?”

Roger is somehow even closer than he was before— John is lying on his side leaning on his elbow, and Roger is on his back beside him, pressed right up against his front— and John is having trouble focusing on anything that isn’t how warm Roger feels against him or the little tingles going down his spine. “Hmm?”

“Before the power went,” Roger frowns. “I was saying something important but I can’t remember what it was.”

“Oh. Uh…” _Focus, John._ John’s cheeks feel hot and shakes his head a little trying to clear the fog. “Um… being rock stars?”

“Yes!” Roger cries excitedly, turning onto his side to meet John’s eyes. He’s _really_ close now, right against John’s front, his face barely inches away, and _it would be so easy—_ “We’re so _close_ Deaks,” Roger sighs, “can’t you just taste it? We’ve almost got the album finished, and then it’s next stop: rock and roll gods.”

John smiles, fond. “You really have that much confidence in us?”

Roger nods.

“What if the album flops?”

“Then the next one will be better,” Roger says easily. “And the one after that will be better again.”

John hums. “You’ve got a lot of faith in our music.” There’s a deep roll of thunder, so loud it sounds like it’s coming from inside, and a flash of lightning lights up the room for a split second. _God, but Roger is pretty._

“Well what’s the alternative?” Roger asks, every bit open and honest. “Do our best and just… hope and pray that maybe if we’re lucky someday we’ll make it? Be gracious in defeat? That’s not the way I’ve ever done things and it’s sure as hell not the way _Freddie_ does things.” He shrugs. “We just… we gotta keep going like we’re gonna make it no matter what, you know? Like that’s the only possibility. Otherwise we’ll never stand a chance.”

There’s a warm sort of ache inside John’s chest and the longer he looks into Roger’s eyes the stronger it gets. He feels warm and floaty and drunk and Roger is so close that John can feel the heat of his breath fanning over his face and it would be the easiest thing in the world to just—

“What?”

John blinks. “What?”

A grin breaks out on Roger’s face. “You’re staring at me.”

John smiles lazily. “No I’m not.”

Roger laughs, his eyes sparkling. “Yes, you are.”

“Well can you blame me?”

He doesn’t mean to say it, but once it’s out there, hanging over them like something warm and heavy, John can’t find it in himself to try to take it back. Despite the surprise in his eyes Roger is still beaming at him, and after a moment he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. John’s cheeks are burning as Roger searches his face.

The blood is rushing in John’s ears so loud it almost drowns out the rain beating against the window pane and the rumbles of thunder, and he barely notices the flash of lightning that temporarily lights up the room. Roger’s eyes dart down to his lips and they’re so close that John isn’t sure if the pounding heartbeat he can hear is his or Roger’s, and when Roger’s eyes dart back up to meet his John swears his pupils have gotten bigger. There’s something hanging in the air over them, so thick John thinks he could probably cut it with a knife, but he doesn’t back down, doesn’t think he could tear his eyes away from Roger if he tried. He licks his lips and Roger’s eyes dart down to mouth again and John almost holds his breath. And then, suddenly, Roger surges forward and crushes their lips together.

It’s so hard it’s probably bruising, desperate and fierce, and without a moment’s hesitation John kisses him back, pressing himself as close to Roger as he can, grabbing his waist to slot their bodies together. Roger’s hand is firm on his jaw and John kisses him back hard and fervid, like this is the only chance he’ll ever have to kiss him so he needs to put everything he has into it. John’s whole body feels like a livewire, sparks shooting up his spine at the feeling of Roger all around him, Roger kissing him like he can’t get enough of him.

Suddenly, a deafening clap of thunder shakes the flat and they jump apart, their eyes flying open. They’re both breathing hard, staring back at each other as lightning lights up the room. Roger is looking at him almost in shock and John feels something cold settling deep in his stomach as he has the fleeting thought that this was a very very _very_ bad idea— that Roger had made a mistake and now their friendship is ruined and the band is ruined and John has the sudden urge to jump up and run away as fast as he can. But then, just as quickly as it came, the cold thing in the pit of his stomach melts away like snow in the sun and he’s filled instead with something warm and giddy because this is _Roger_ and Roger is looking at him like he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen in his life, his eyes bright and sparkling, and after a second John finds himself laughing, almost in disbelief.

Roger is laughing too, then, a bright sound that makes John’s stomach flip, and John is still grinning when Roger leans in and closes the gap between them again. He kisses him sweetly this time, almost innocent, and his hand smooths gently over John’s cheek to tuck his hair out of his face. After a moment, John shifts and swings a leg over him, a knee on either side of Roger’s hips, and John leans back just enough to let Roger sit up properly against the couch before he’s cupping his face so gently with both hands and kissing him again. 

It’s all slow, honeyed pleasure then. Outside, the wind is howling and the rain is whipping against the windowpane, but Roger’s hands are warm on John’s hips and they’re slipping just under his shirt to graze the skin of his waist, and John feels a little like he’s catching fire everywhere Roger touches him. There’s an easy sort of heat burning low in the pit of his stomach, something soft and bright, and he barely even notices that he’s getting hard. 

Then Roger is biting down gently on his bottom lip, his tongue slipping in to taste when John opens for him. It’s hot and wet and all electricity sparking at the base of John’s spine, and Roger tastes like cheap wine and just a little like cigarettes and John feels drunker off this than he ever did off the alcohol. He threads a hand through Roger’s hair, running his fingers through it, and he giggles when he accidentally catches a tangle and makes Roger yelp in surprise, his grip on John’s hips tightening.

John hardly notices Roger’s hand on his thigh, trailing up so gently, so carefully, until his knuckles are brushing the bulge in his trousers. John gasps, jerking back instinctively, and Roger pulls his hand away like he’s been burned. 

“Should I stop?” he whispers, leaning back enough to meet John’s eyes.

He’s fucking ethereal, all long eyelashes and messy hair cast in shadows, and it takes John a moment to remember how to form words before he can shake his head and say, his cheeks warm, “No— god, no. Just surprised me, s’all.”

Roger looks unsure, and John smiles softly, nodding, taking Roger’s wrist and leading his hand down to his crotch as he leans in to kiss him again. Reassured now, Roger hums into his mouth and squeezes, gently.

John can’t hold back his soft moan, and he rocks his hips into Roger’s hand, chasing the feeling. He wraps his arms around Roger’s neck and kisses him a little deeper, still so sweet and so slow, and when he threads his fingers in the hair at the nape of Roger’s neck and tugs, so gently, Roger makes a high-pitched sound that’s almost like a whine and John thinks he could listen to him make that sound every day for the rest of his life and not get bored.

There are fingers undoing the button of his trousers then, slowly tugging down the zipper, and John lets out a shuddery breath and answers the whisper of “okay?” against his lips with a nod. Then Roger is slipping a hand into his jeans— or rather, he’s trying to.

“Do you have to wear such tight bloody trousers all the time?” Roger mutters. He tugs hard to try and ruck them down John’s hips enough to get his hand inside.

John giggles and raises himself onto his knees to try and make it easier, his head ducked so he doesn’t hit the blanket above them. “You love my trousers,” he teases. “I’ve seen you looking.”

Roger’s eyes dart up to his, and John thinks he can almost make out a soft blush on his cheeks— although, he supposes, it’s very possible that it has something to do with all the alcohol. After a solid 30 seconds in which Roger has no luck, John laughs and shifts off of Roger’s lap and onto the blanket beside him to shimmy them off himself.

He does get them, eventually, peeling them off his legs along with his boxers, leaving both in a crumpled pile before he swings a leg over Roger again, settling back in his lap. Roger is looking at him with something like amusement in his eyes, trying to suppress a smile.

“Shut up,” John whispers, and Roger laughs.

Roger’s hands are back on his hips then, steadying him, and John quickly sets to work getting Roger’s trousers undone (it takes him a few more tries than he’d like to admit to get them unbuttoned, but he gets there eventually and really that’s all that should matter). The denim feels hard and scratchy against John’s bare thighs, and after a moment he sits back on Roger’s lap, fixing him with a frown.

“Just take them off,” he says finally, moving off of Roger again, a little less steadily this time, falling onto his bum on the blankets beside him. He giggles.

“Jesus, you are _drunk,_” Roger laughs, but he obediently starts to tug off his jeans.

“Says you!” John protests, still grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

“We’re _both_ drunk,” Roger offers, and John can accept the compromise because then Roger finally gets his jeans off and slips them down along with his boxers so that he’s naked from the waist down, and John can’t tear his eyes away. Roger is pretty— _obviously_— but jesus, he’s even got a pretty cock, too. John decides to tell him so.

“You have a very pretty cock,” he informs him, matter-of-factly, as he moves over to plop back down in his lap.

Roger snorts and tells him to shut up.

“I’m just saying!” John protests, giggling.

Roger doesn’t answer him this time, because now he’s staring down at John’s lap with something hungry in his eyes. John is already so hard it’s almost distracting and Roger can’t seem to look away. John catches his lower lip between his teeth, waits for him to do something. Normally it would make his cheeks burn, feeling exposed like this— any other time it would make that red-hot insecurity curl inside his chest and form a lump in his throat— but with Roger now, he feels anything but insecure. In fact, now he’s filled with a sense of what feels almost like confidence, and when Roger licks over his lips a sort of thrill races down John’s spine.

“It’s rude to stare, you know,” he says finally, and when Roger looks up to meet his eyes John tries his best to bite back his smile. He isn’t entirely successful.

Roger chuckles, but John is pretty sure he can make out a blush high up on his cheekbones. “God, I should’ve known you’d be a brat,” Roger mutters, but there's something fond and bright in his eyes.

John opens his mouth to respond but he doesn’t get the chance because then Roger is curling a hand around his cock and John’s mind is going blank. Roger strokes him slowly and lazily, and John can’t look away from the way his dick is slipping through Roger’s fist.

“You know,” Roger says, “if I’d known this is all it takes to shut you up I would’ve given you a handy years ago.”

It shocks a laugh out of John. He realizes then that he hasn’t been doing anything except staring, and he shakes his head a little to clear it before he reaches down and takes Roger’s cock in his hand. Roger immediately jerks back with a sharp curse, and John lets go, eyes wide.

“Wha—”

“God you’re fucking _freezing!_”

John blinks, and it takes him a moment to understand. When he does, he has to fight to hold back his laughter.

“I— sorry?”

“_How_ is your hand so cold?” Roger asks incredulously.

“I dunno,” John giggles. “I don’t feel cold.”

“God you’re like an icebox,” Roger mutters.

“Rude!” John accuses. “Do you want me to give you a handy or not? Because I can go,” he threatens.

“No no I do!” Roger laughs. “I do, just—” he takes John’s hand between both of his and rubs, trying to warm him up.

John wrinkles his nose. “Alright then, princess.” he teases, and Roger makes an indignant noise.

When Roger lets his hand go, John curls it around him again and strokes him slowly, and Roger hums. “See? That’s much better.”

John rolls his eyes, but he can't suppress his fond smile. “You’re an arse.”

Roger laughs. “Is that so?”

“Mhm— _oh!_” John breaks off when Roger wraps his hand around him again and presses his thumb over the head. “God, you prick!” John exclaims.

He lets go of Roger’s cock for just long enough to spit in his hand before curling it around him again and stroking him firmly, flicking his wrist at the base, and Roger lets out a surprised, breathy sort of gasp.

John’s head is fuzzy from the wine and it’s definitely not the best handjob he’s ever given but Roger certainly doesn’t seem to mind. He’s making the prettiest fucking noises, all shaky breaths and soft moans that make John’s head spin. Roger’s fist is tight and slick around John’s own cock and he’s stroking him at a slow, lazy sort of pace and John feels a little like he’s burning up, the heat in his stomach building gradually like embers slowly being fanned into flame.

John is almost overwhelmed, for a moment, that after all the time that he’s known Roger— all the secret glances and the guilty wanks late at night when he just couldn’t get him off his mind— that he’s here now, in Roger’s lap, with Roger’s hand on his cock and Roger’s lips on his neck, that _he’s_ the one that’s making Roger moan like that, and it’s probably the alcohol but when a giggle bubbles up inside John he just can’t keep it in.

Roger pulls back to look up at him, almost concerned for a second, but when he sees John beaming at him with crinkled eyes, his bottom lip pulled between his teeth, he slowly breaks out into a grin.

“What’s funny?”

John shakes his head, his eyes bright. “Nothing,” he whispers.

Roger laughs and something in John’s chest swells so much that the only thing he can think to do is lean in and kiss him again.

Roger is moaning softly into his mouth and his hips are gently rocking into John’s hand and John focuses on stroking him slowly and evenly. If he swipes his thumb over the head, he can coax a soft whine from him.

The pleasure builds slowly, bright and warm and sweet, all soft moans and shuddering breaths until it’s thrumming at the base of John’s spine. Roger’s fist is moving a little faster now and John matches his pace, panting into his mouth as the heat builds and builds. The sounds of the wind and the rain are distant and muffled, almost like he’s underwater, like everything else has faded out of focus and the only thing that’s clear to him is _Roger—_ Roger warm and solid underneath him, Roger’s breath against his lips, Roger’s quiet sighs and whispers of his name. It builds and it builds until it crests, washes over them both, and John comes with Roger’s name on his lips.

John pants as he comes down from it, pressing his forehead against Roger’s with his eyes closed. They sit there together, catching their breath, and John feels almost completely boneless, like his limbs are made of lead, so heavy he’s not even sure he can move them. Slowly, the rest of the world comes back into focus— the wind is still howling outside and the rain is still beating against the windows, and the rumbles of thunder are getting more and more distant, coming further apart now.

Roger’s hands are resting low on his hips, his thumbs rubbing slowly over his hip bones, and eventually John finally gathers the energy to lift his head and fix Roger with a dopey sort of smile. Roger laughs.

“Feeling good there Deaks?” 

John giggles softly. “Mhm.” He blinks a few times to try to clear the fog, and when he glances down he wrinkles his nose. “There’s come on my shirt,” he frowns.

“Probably should’ve taken it off,” Roger muses, and John hums in agreement. “Oh well. Next time,” Roger sighs.

It’s said offhandedly but it still makes John’s stomach flip. 

_Next time._

“I’ll just steal one of yours,” John shrugs.

“_Or_ you could just walk around the flat naked for the rest of the night,” Roger suggests, cheeky. “I think I’d rather like the sight of that.”

John giggles and buries his face in Roger’s chest, and he feels his cheeks heating up in spite of himself.

Roger laughs too then, and John the vibrations against his cheek. Outside, the wind is still wailing and the cold rain is still beating against the window, but inside, in Roger’s lap, with Roger’s hand rubbing lazy circles on the small of his back and Roger’s heartbeat against his ear, John feels warm and cozy and safer than he’s felt in a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> comments give me a serotonin rush that can keep me goin for like three days straight so if u liked this pls consider letting me know!!!!
> 
> come talk to me on my [tumblr](https://starrydrowse.tumblr.com)! :)


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